SAMPHIRE 


SAMPHIRE 


BY 

JOHN  COWPER  POWYS 

r  * 


"Half  way  down 

Hangs  one  that  gathers  Samphire,  dreadful  trade  I 
Methinks  he  seems  no  bigger  than  his  head." 

King  Lear.    Act  IV.    Scene  VI, 


NEW  YORK 
THOMAS  SELTZER 

1922 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
THOMAS  SELTZER,  INC. 

All  rights  reserved 


PRINTED    IK    THE    UNITED    STATES    OP    AMERICA 


DEDICATED  TO  LLEWELYN  POWYS 


rr  O  a  •  ?  '.* 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  ULTIMATE 1 

DEMOGORGON 4 

THE  OLD  PIER-POST 6 

THE  CASTLE  OF  GATHORE 9 

THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  GODS 13 

THE   FACE 16 

THE  HERON'S  NEST 19 

LUBBERLU  .22 

THE  OLD  SATYR  TO  THE  YOUNG  PLATONIST       .  25 

YOUTH  AND  AGE 28 

METAPHYSIC 31 

THE    MALICE-DANCE           34 

CANDLE   LIGHT 36 

THE  ECLIPSE 39 

THE    RIDER  43 


WILLIAM   CORBY 46 

To  A  CERTAIN  LADY     ......  47 

THE  "DISASTER" 49 

NOVEMBER           gj 

BON  ESPOIR  Y  GIST  Au  FOND!     .  52 


SAMPHIRE 


THE  ULTIMATE 

So  this  is  the  ultimate — 

That  we  bleed  with  our  backs  to  the  wall, 

While  the  rats  and  weasels  of  fate 

Eat  at  our  liver  and  gall; 

Eat  at  our  hearts  with  teeth  of  bane, 

And  tug  at  the  sick  white  roots  of  pain 

Where  every  man's  alone, 

And  scrape  a  tune  on  the  deep  nerve-string 

That  is  love  and  life  and  everything, 

And  gnaw  our  flesh  to  the  bone. 

Is  this  the  ultimate? 

No!  This  is  nothing  at  all! 

Some  human  dramas  stop  with  this; 


With  this  some  curtains  fall. 

But  the  play  that  the  high  gods  love 

In  their  Theatre  of  Space 

Has  the  mind,  the  mind  for  the  stage  thereof 

And  the  soul  for  its  dancing  place ! 

Oh  shapes  of  terror  and  fear, 

Oh  shapes  of  loathing  and  lust, 

That  gibber  and  jibe  at  us  here 

Ye  break  earth's  shallow  crust. 

Far  back  that  stage  recedes — 

Who  knows  where  that  stairway  goes? 

Who  knows  where  that  passage  leads? 

And  that  door?     Who  knows?     Who  knows? 

For  the  rats  that  again  and  again 
Gnaw  at  each  rib  and  joint 
Of  the  vessel  of  our  pain 
Stop  gasping  at  this  point; 
[2] 


And  in  crowds  they  flee  from  the  ship 
That  steers  for  the  open  sea 
And  turns  the  prow  of  its  bleeding  lip 
Towards  eternity! 


[3] 


DEMOGORGON 

I  am  the  Devil  of  Notre  Dame. 

Salaam ! 

I  dance  my  dance  and  I  work  my  charm. 

Salaam ! 

I  cling  to  terror  by  the  hair  of  her  head, 

I  have  taken  Medusa  to  my  bed. 

I  hug  the  Nightmare  until  she  is  dead. 

Salaam ! 

Hush !  By  the  Lord's  side  I  have  stood — 

Touch  wood ! 

Before  Orion  rose  out  of  the  sky 

Rose  I! 

Before  the  Hunter  hunted  the  Ram 

I  am 

I  am  the  Demon  of  Socrates 

On  your  knees ! 

[4] 


The  oldest  of  the  Eumenides — 
The  she-ape  of  Mephistopheles — 
The  deadly  wind  in  Dodona's  trees — 

The  poisonous  smoke  'twixt  the  Pythia's  knees 

I  am  more  terrible  than  these ! 

In  Jotunheim,  Loki  I'm  called — 

Scald! 

I  am  Asmodeus  in  Babylon. 
In  Egypt  I  am  Osiris'  son 
I  am  many  and  I  am  One. 

At  the  Beginning  I  stood  by  the  Lord 

God! 

At  the  last  I  shall  be  the  Worm  of  the  Pit 

Uncurled 

Who  swallows  Him  and  who  swallows  It 

His  World! 


THE  OLD  PIER-POST 

I  am  the  sea-ward-looking  one, 
Covered  with  weed  and  slime — 
"Fresh  fish  for  sale !" — of  a  row  of  posts, 
That  rotted  by  centuries  nod  like  ghosts 
To  the  ebb  and  flow  of  time. 
Sea-tangle  and  sea-scum 
Will  the  Christ  never  come? 

Two  lovers  that  met  at  this  ocean-mart, 
With  kissings  and  clingings  pale 
Breaking  the  shell  of  a  human  heart 
And  tearing  its  bleeding  core  apart, — 
— "Fresh  fish,  fresh  fish  for  sale !" — 
[6] 


Left  a  tress  of  shining  hair  on  me; 

And  two  sea-gulls  that  once  were  mates 

But  were  wrenched  away  by  the  blinding  spray 

And  the  unrelenting  fates, 

Left  a  feather  on  me,  a  shining  feather, 

With  sea-scum  covered  and  scales 

Of  the  mackerel  bright  they  had  caught  together, 

— "Fresh  fish  for  sale!" — in  the  wild  storm-weather 

And  the  fury  of  the  gales. 

And  the  terrible  ultimate  thought  of  one 
Who  had  scooped  at  the  shingle  of  things 
Till  he'd  taken  the  light  from  the  kindly  sun — 
— "Fresh  fish  for  sale!" — and  to  death  had  done 
The  light  that  the  sweet  moon  brings, 

Graved  itself  on  the  grey  sea-mark 
Wherewith  with  eyeless  stare 
[7] 


I  frown  at  the  twilight  and  face  the  dark — 

-"Fresh   fish   for   sale!" — and   with   forehead   star] 
Confront  a  world's  despair. 

A  shining  tress,  a  feather,  a  thought — 

With  these  I  create  a  soul, 

A  soul  that  is  not  to  be  sold  or  bought; 

Yes;  I  who  am  nought  and  less  than  nought — 

— "Fresh  fish  for  sale !" — have  something  caught 

From  the  waters  as  they  roll ! 

Yes;  I,  the  sea-ward-looking  one, 
Covered  with  weed  and  slime, 
Have  gathered  a  soul  to  rest  upon 
As  I  rock  to  the  rhythm  of  time. 
Bright  hair,  bright  feather,  brain-disease 
Blotting  the  sun  and  moon — 
If  an  old  sea-pier  steals  a  soul  from  these, 
Christ  must  be  coming  soon! 
[8] 


THE  CASTLE  OF  GATHORE 

There  is  a  place  none  knows  but  I — 

The  Castle  of  Gathore ! 

Black  murky  pools  about  it  lie. 

And  the  trees  are  sick  with  its  mystery; 

And  dead  things  are  its  floor. 

Each  tree  with  twisted  root  entwines 
The  bones  of  older  trees. 
Moon  after  moon  above  them  shines — 
Beyond  the  moon — the  Zodiac  signs! 
Beyond  them — the  Immensities! 
[9] 


None    would    think    that    ever    such    pools 

could  be ! 

Black  morgues  of  leafy  doom, 
Where  century  after  century 
Old  forests  find  their  tomb. 

Oh  terrible  steps  of  leaf -mould  sod 
Such  as  man  never  saw 
That  mount  up — holy  Mother  of  God! — 
To  the  Castle  of  Gathore! 

And  I  alone — yes  only  I — 

Under  Algol  and  Altair — 

When  a  new-born  moon  was  in  the  sky 

Climbed  up  that  mossy  stair. 

Old  Cypress-roots  of  long  decay 
Troubled  my  noiseless  tread; 
[10] 


Old  Yews  made  midnight  of  the  day 
As  they  met  above  my  head. 


Out  of  the  trees,  tier  above  tier, 
Mossed  stone  above  mossed  stone, 
Buttress  on  buttress,  it  towered  there, 
A  Nightmare  image,  a  thing  of  fear, 
Revealed  to  me  alone! 


My  home  !  My  home !  To  my  heart  I  said — 

My  home !  To  my  soul  I  cried — 

From  here  have  been  wafted  those  airs  of 

the  dead 

That  have  driven  my  true  love  from  my  bed, 
And  my  true  love  from  my  side ! 


This  is  what  divides  me  from  him  and  her 
And  the  blessed  light  of  the  sun; 
Till  the  eyes  of  Algol  and  of  Altair 
Are  my  only  benison! 

This  is  what  they  guessed  when  in  dumb 

surprise 

They  turned  and  let  me  pass — • 
This  is  what  they  saw  behind  my  eyes 
Like  a  phantom  in  a  glass ! 

They   saw  those  towers;   they   saw  those 

trees ; 

And  I  am  alone  once  more — 
Alone  with  the  Immensities 
And  the  Castle  of  Gathore ! 


[18] 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  GODS 

In  a  long  sad  row  the  old  gods  come; 
They  come  and  bow  to  me. 
Like  candle-flames  in  a  raftered  room, 
Like  trees  in  an  avenue  of  doom, 
They  bend  in  unity. 

And  a  sound  comes  from  them,  a  terrible  sound, 
Like  the  wind  in  a  tamarisk  grove, 
Or  a  howl  from  some  treacherous  marshy  ground 
Where  the  swamp-demons  move. 

And  in  that  moan  is  the  cracking  of  sticks 
Where  Behemoth  stalks  thro'  the  trees ; 
And  in  that  moan  is  the  flame  that  licks 
The  knees  of  Rameses: 


And  in  that  moan  rocks  Nineveh 
With  her  golden  roofs  and  floors ! 
And  in  that  moan  quakes  Babylon 
With  her  columned  corridors ! 

From  my  little  green  seat  of  piled-up  sods 
Like  a  dwarf  on  a  churchyard  mound 
I  watch  that  row  of  bowing  Gods 
And  I  hear  that  terrible  sound. 

They  nod  and  mutter ;  they  sway  and  bend 
Like  monoliths  of  stone, 
Like  huge  gaunt  birds  on  a  branches'  end, 
And  as  they  bend  they  moan. 

They  shiver  like  monstrous  skeleton  leaves; 
They  rattle  like  gibbets  stark; 
They  reel  like  ruined  autumn  sheaves 
In  the  stubble  of  the  dark. 
[14] 


Their  eye-sockets  are  hollow  and  deep; 
Their  foreheads  are  cliffs  of  doom; 
And  they  bleat  at  me  like  gigantic  sheep 
That  are  herded  in  a  tomb. 

And  very  slowly  I  lift  my  head — 
And  slowly  I  lift  my  hand 
— And  a  row  of  horny  beetles  dead 
Lie  scattered  in  the  sand ! 


[16] 


THE   FACE 

In  the  hollow  spaces  I  see  a  face 
As  I  go  whistling  to  my  Dear, 
And  in  those  lineaments  I  trace 
The  ultimate  Fear. 

Throned  on  the  dark  that  face  I  see, 
As  I  go  whistling  to  my  Doll; 
Of  human  terror  the  apogee — 
Fol-de-rol ! 

The  wreckage  of  the  whole  damned  race, 
As  I  go  whistling  to  my  white  bird, 
Is  in  that  wavering  ghastly  face 
That  speaks  no  word ! 


Is  that  face  moulded  by  treachery 
As  I  go  whistling  to  my  Poll, 
And  carved  by  lust  out  of  lechery? 
Fol-lol-de-rol ! 

Has  it  woven  itself  out  of  ancient  sorrows 
As  I  go  whistling  to  my  maid, 
Out  of  all  the  To-days  that  to  all  the  To 
morrows 
Shriek — "betrayed !" 

I  like  not  to  see  that  face  in  the  night, 
As  I  go  whistling  to  my  own : 
A  terrible  face  for  the  sweet  moonlight 
To  shine  upon ! 

But  as  long  as  those  lips  utter  no  sound, 
As  I  go  whistling  to  my  Troll, 
[17] 


All  is  yet  well  above  the  ground, 
Fol-lol-de-rol ! 

Oh  white,  white  lips  that  hang  so  mute, 
As  I  go  whistling  to  my  Love, 
That  ultimate  Fear  would  be  absolute 
If  you  should  move! 


[18] 


THE  HERON'S  NEST 

The  World-Mother  sits  on  her  sky-blue  eggs — 
"A  mare's  nest !"  cries  the  minstrel,  laughing. 
"Her  wings  are  lovely — but  what  of  her  legs?" 
Cries  the  youngest  page  to  the  courtiers  scoffing. 

"A  wicked  bird/'  cries  the  mitred  priest — 
"To  lay  blue  eggs  and  to  sit  on  them! 
Blue  is  no  colour  for  bird  or  beast 
Blue  is  the  colour  of  our  Lady's  hem." 

"A  shameless  bird !"  cries  the  old  queen  mother, 
"Eggs  should  be  mottled  white,  not  blue." 
"A  pox  on  the  bird!"  cries  the  old  king's  brother- 
"There's  no  such  bird!"  cry  the  courtier  crew. 
[19] 


Home  from  hunting  returned  the  King — 
White  as  a  young  birch-tree  was  he. 
"Ye  are  all  of  you  plotting  a  cursed  thing! 
"And  evil  is  your  conspiracy ! 

"I  have  seen  the  World-Mother  upon  her  nest; 
I  have  seen  those  eggs,  blue  as  the  sky; 
And  for  what  I  have  seen  I  would  give  the  rest 
Of  my  kingdom;  and  willingly  die!" 

And  the  minstrel  winked  at  the  youngest  page; 
And  the  old  queen  pinched  the  fool; 
And  the  mitred  priest  to  hide  his  rage 
Grinned  at  them  like  a  ghoul. 

"Down  on  your  knees  to  the  great  World-Mother! 
'Tis  I,  your  King,  who  begs." 

But  they  stood  stock-still  and  stared  at  each  other — 
[20] 


"The  King  is  mad/'  cried  the  old  king's  brother. 
"I've  traveled  the  world  from  one  end  to  another — 
Those  eggs  are  Heron's  eggs !" 

From  the  walls  of  the  Madhouse  upon  the  hill, 

When  this  traveler  came  to  be  crowned 

At  the  Queen's  and  the  Priest's  and  the  Courtier's  will, 

There  fell  a  curious  sound — 

A  sound  that  was  like  the  flapping  of  wings; 

And  a  radiant  voice  that  was  like  the  King's ! 


[21] 


LUBBERLU 

"Green  were  her  eyes, — yellow  were  her  eyes 
Her  eyes  were  like  withered  sedge!" 
— "This  is  holy  Mass  and  the  hour  flies 
And  there  is  red  in  the  church-yard  hedge. 

"Raise  me  aloft  my  taper's  flame, 
Light  me  my  candles  three, 
For  I  must  call  on  the  Baby's  name 
Who  is  born  to  young  Mary!" — 

"O  father,  I  see  a  blood-red  streak 
In  the  reeds  where  first  I  caught  her — 
And  I  hear  a  cry  makes  my  heart  weak — 
And  turns  my  bones  to  water. 
[22] 


"The  marsh-bittern  and  lone  curlew 
That  cry  comes  not  from  them — " 
— "Bring  me  bread  and  wine  my  Lubberlu, 
And  hold  my  vestments'  hem ! 

"T^he  candles  burn — The   oxen  kneel. 
Boy,  bring  me  my  holy  book — 
Born  is  the  King  of  Israel!" 
—"Oh  father,  my  father,  look! 

"She  is  pressing  her  face  'gainst  the  window-pane, 
Where  the  saints  stare  in  a  row 
And  her  lips  are  red  with  the  morning's  stain 
And  her  cheeks  are  white  like  snow !" — 

— "  'Tis  Christmas  morn  and  the  mass  unsung 
For  the  Baby  of  young  Mary!" — 
But  the  idiot-boy  from  his  side  had  sprung. 
At  the  window  prone  was  he. 
[23] 


And  the  oxen  knelt  in  their  frozen  shed 
And  the  sheep  in  their  hurdled  pen; 
But  Lubberlu  lay  stark  and  dead, 
He  never  will  come  again. 

They  sign  his  breast  and  they  sign  his  brow 
With  the  cross  to  which  they  pray — 
But  two  lost  souls  are  flying  now 
Over  the  reeds  and  over  the  snow, 
Over  the  hills  and  away. 


[24] 


THE  OLD  SATYR  TO  THE  YOUNG 
PLATONIST 

Go  and  get  a  monk  for  a  lover, 

And  let  me  quietly  sit 

On  this  warm  stone  which  the  lichens  cover. 

I  have  had  enough  of  it ! 

Did  the  high  gods  carve  your  polished  flanks 
And  make  liquid  your  hazel  eyes, 
That  two  should  stand  on  a  river's  banks 
And  offer  up  the  scurvy  thanks 
Of  being  over  wise? 

Let  me  alone.     I  have  heard  your  tale, 
How  Love  is  this  and  how  Love  is  that. 
[26] 


Is  not  milk  still  white  in  the  pail 
And  wine  still  red  in  the  vat? 

I  would  have  gathered  you  moschatel, 
Wood-spurge,  wood-sorel,  wood-saxifrage! 
When  the  moon  rode  forth  I'd  have  taught  you 

to  tell 
Every  star  in  her  equipage ! 

Because  I'd  loved  you  with  satyr  passion 
Were  that  a  reason  I  should  not  keep 
Tenderness  in  my  goat-foot  fashion, 
And  watch  beside  your  sleep? 

The  oldest  of  Centaurs  is  my  brother — 
The  wild  wood-ways  are  in  my  blood — 
My  mother  was  the  great  earth-mother— 
Yet  I  can  love  you  as  well  as  another 
For  all  my  satyrhood ! 

[26] 


Go  find  your  friend.    I  have  pride  of  my  own, 

But  every  noon  I'll  sit 

On  this  warm  lichen-covered  stone, 

And  perhaps  you'll  come  back  to  it ! 

Perhaps  when  they  talk  of  Love  one  day 
In  their  high  platonic  hall, 
You  will  curse  their  chatter  and  flee  away 
And  find  your  Satyr's  grave  and  say, 
"His  love  was  best  of  all !" 


[27] 


YOUTH  AND  AGE 

"O  wanton  youth,  this  wind  was  not 

Over  common  highways  blown 

From  gardens  far  from  here — God  wot ! 

It  has  caught  that  plaintive  tone. 

Listen !  But  ah !  It  touches  you  not ! 

Listen !  But  ah !  I  had  forgot — 

The  heart  of  youth  is  stone. 

"Did  you  not  know  such  places  were? 
Lovely  are  they  and  few^ 
The  gardens  that  breathe  such  perfumed  air ! 
Listen!     But  what  care  you? 
Over  many  a  moon-lit  terraced  spot 
It  has  come  to  claim  its  own 
[28] 


Over  Marjoram  and  Melilot, 

Over  London  Pride  and  Bergamot, 

It  has  come  to  trouble,  doubt  it  not, 

All  hearts  save  those  of  stone !" 

— "I  like  not  this  breath  in  the  swaying  grasses ! 
I  like  not  that  shadow  on  the  rustling  trees! 
I  suspect  that  wind  as  it  softly  passes 
Back  to  its  garden  of  memories ! 
Your  walled-up  pansies  are  faded  and  sere; 
Your  dark  parterres  of  cypress-green 
Make  the  very  lizards  listen  in  fear 
Of  phantom  footsteps  and  forms  unseen. 
Your  fountains  are  choked  with  hemlock  weeds, 
The  toad  croaks  there  and  the  night-owls  call. 
There  are  wandering  dandelion-seeds 
Where  red  rose-petals  were  wont  to  fall ! 
Oh  woe-begone  one,  you  can  tempt  me  not 
[29] 


With  your  proud  sad  gardens,  your  wind  that 

sighs, 

Your  Mignonette  and  your  Melilot! 
The  heart  of  youth  is  wise." 


[30] 


METAPHYSIC 

Dearie  I!  When  I  up  and  follows 

Grand-dad  Cooper's  cross-cut  road, 

The  road  that   from   Hawk's   Hill   to   Green 

Lane  Hollows 

Is  nought  but  rabbits  and  cuckoos  and  swallows 
And  fields  with  turnip  sowed, 


Dearie  I !  the  road  that  over 
Badger's  Warren  and  Turnstile  Hill 
Skirts  park-fence  by  Witham's  Cover, 
Where  old  man  Rob  caught  young  Nell's  lover, 
And  leads  to  Dead  Man's  Mill, 
[31] 


Dearie  I !   I  do  stop  and  hear 
Out  of  wind  a  terrible  sound; 
And  Almighty,  he  do  whisper  clear 
Like  a  girt  wold  owl  long-side  my  ear — 
"Nancy  girl,  this  be  holy  ground !" 

Dearie  I !  And  he  says  to  me — 
"You've  been  here,  Nancy,  long  ere  this  !" 
And  he  lifts  the  veil  of  his  mystery 
From  the  face  of  his  abyss. 

And  high  Hawk  Hill  and  Green  Lane  Hollows 
Grow  only  dreams  that  I  have  dreamed; 
And  Grand-dad's   road  with  its   cuckoos   and 

swallows, 

The  road  an  old  fox-bitch  still  follows, 
Is  a  fairy-place  that  only  seemed ! 
[32] 


And  Dead  Man's  Mill  grows  doubly  dead, 
For  its  old-time  pond  of  terribleness, 
And  him  it  drowned,  like  mists  are  fled! 
And  nought  bides  there  but  nothingness ! 
Gone,  gone — all  gone — shadows  and  dreams! 
Dearie  I !    and  'twere  Grand-dad's  road 
Whereon  a'  drove  Squire  Withy's  teams 
And  many  a  turnip-load ! 


[33] 


THE   MALICE-DANCE 

An  intolerable  singing 
From  an  ancient  haunted  lawn 
Where  the  ghost-moths  whitely  winging 
Cross  a  moon-dial  forlorn, 
Drew  me  from  you  as  you  trifled 
With  the  jasmin  in  your  hair, 
Dreaming  that  your  beauty  rifled 
All  my  sense  and  held  me  there; 
But  I  left  you;  and,  escaping 
With  a  lost  tune  in  my  head, 
Set  my  memory  reshaping 
The  old  dances  of  the  dead. 
And   the   intolerable   singing 
[34] 


Heard  across  that  haunted  lawn, 

Drew  me  to  the  ghost-moths  winging, 

Round  that  moon-dial  forlorn. 

Over  me  the  clouds  were  running 

Races  with  the  naked  stars, 

And  dark  Yews  were  making  cunning 

Love  to  whispering  Deodars. 

And  the  ghost-moths  drugged  my  reason, 

And  I  danced  to  that  old  tune 

Malice  dances  full  of  treason 

Round  that  dial  of  the  moon ! 


[35] 


CANDLE  LIGHT 

Hush,  true  Love,  as  we  sit  and  think 
And  talk  to  shadows  and  watch  the  coals 
Redden  up  from  beyond  the  brink 
Of  the  common  reach  of  our  souls. 

Do  you  not  catch  a  cry  in  the  air? 

No !     That  is  the  wind  in  the  chimney  calling ! 

That  is  a  curtain  fluttering  there ! 

That  is  a  dead  branch  falling! 

Burning  wood  when  candles  are  lit 
Has  a  bitter-sweet  breath  that  can  carry  far; 
That  can  carry  two  lovers  from  where  they  sit 
[36] 


To  the  edge  of  the  sea  and  over  it 
Where  the  unknown  islands  are. 

-j 

Burning  wood  has  a  wizard  spell 

Full   of   old   sad   stories   and   long-dead  things; 

Like  myrrh  and  cassia  is  that  smell, 

From  the  sepulchres  of  kings. 

And  whenever  lovers  like  you  and  me 

Sit  together  of  a  winter's  night, 

There's  a  cry  on  the  wind,  there's  a  cry  on  the  sea 

There's  a  tongue  in  the  candlelight. 

And  a  great  host  gathers  out  of  the  dark 
From   wild   far    places,   from    sunk   sea-walls, 
From  fallen  roofs  where  hyaenas  bark 
From  ruined  tents  and  kraals. 
[37] 


It  gathers  towards  us  while  you  and  I 
Talk  to  old  shadows  and  sit  and  stare, 
And  let  time  and  space  and  the  world  go  by 
Like  smoke  upon  the  air. 

And  as  we  gaze  at  the  reddening  coals 
Lost  in  that  amorous  host  are  we; 
That  vast  procession  of  lovers'  souls 
Drowns  our  identity. 

A  procession,  divided  like  Plato's  dream, 
But  rushing  together  on  a  winter's  night, 
When  the  casement  shakes  and  the  red  coals  gleam 
And  we  kiss  by  candle  light ! 


[38] 


THE  ECLIPSE 

I  said,  Tonight  is  her  plenilune, 
And  the  wise  astronomers  held  their  peace, 
I  said,  Tonight  this  naked  moon 
To  her  prisoned  passion  will  give  release; 
And  she  shall  gather  the  forests  to  her 
And  draw  the  oceans  up  to  her  breast. 
The  mountain-torrents  shall  leap  to  undo  her, 
And  the  virgin  valleys  shall  be  at  rest: 
And  the  fish  from  their  fathomless  feeding-ground 
In  finny  circles  shall  upward  move, 
And  the  furry  things  at  the  lightest  sound 
Shall  make  the  forest  ache  with  love! 
And  fallen  boughs  that  for  centuries 
Have  dreamed,  I  said,  of  such  a  night 
[39] 


Shall  feel  in  their  mossy  mortuaries 

The  living  touch  of  her  liquid  light! 

Great  promontories,  where  dawn  by  dawn 

Cormorants  seeking  the  open  sea 

With  yearning  jet-black  necks  up-borne 

Steer  to  the  shoals  of  immensity, 

Shall  thrill  as  they  feel  that  naked  shape 

Draw  near  with  its  luminous  languorous  power, 

And  over  continent  and  cape 

Float  like  an  amorous  lotus-flower. 

Now,  I  said,  with  that  moon  at  full, 

While  the  wise  astronomers  kept  them  still, 

Maids  will  grow  more  than  beautiful, 

And  starved  love-longings  will  have  their  will! 

Now,  I  said,  in  this  perfect  night, 

Lips  that  have  paled  and  pined  for  passion 

Will  take  at  last  their  full  delight 

[40] 


Mouth  upon  mouth  in  sweet  lunar  fashion! 
Tonight  is  the  night,  I  said  to  them  all, 
While  the  wise  astronomers  held  their  peace, 
That  Christ's  own  cloak  on  Love  shall  fall 
And  let  mortal  longings  have  full  release ! 
Then  I  looked  up.    Oh  pity,  oh  loss 
Irremediable !    For  behold  the  shade 
Of  our  own  dark  planet  crept  across, 
And  on  that  glory  its  image  laid. 
Treachery  in  the  heavens !     It  grew — 
That  shadow  of  evil  and  suppression 
Larger  and  larger  with  the  smouldering  hue 
Of  the  old  intolerable  repression! 
It  grew  like  some  monstrous  shadow  of  doom 
Crossing  the  threshold  of  a  happy  king 
Who  begins  to  reck  that  his  bridal-room 
Will  be  the  place  of  his  murdering! 
Terribly,  inch  by  inch  it  grew. 


Carved  with  the  ruinous  runic  scrolls 

Of  our  ancient  woe  and  well  I  knew 

Betrayed  once  more  were  our  human  souls. 

Treachery  in  the  heavens !     From  land 

And  sea  and  every  forest  way, 

From  frightened  pastures  and  darkened  sand 

Rose  up  a  cry  of  wild  dismay — 

And  Christ  bent  down  and  hid  His  head; 

And  the  haters  of  love  laughed  in  their  bed; 

And  "The  Law  is  the  law,"  the  astronomers  said ! 


[42] 


THE  RIDER 

On  the  horses  of  desire 
Over  the  tossing  trees 
I  have  hunted  the  Pillar  of 

Fire 
To  his  inmost  fastnesses. 


On  the  eagles  of  despair 

Where  the  thunders  meet, 

I  have  hunted  the  Powers  of 

the  Air 

To  their  last  retreat. 
[43] 


Over  chasm  and  over  crag 
On  the  horned  moon  riding, 
I  have  hunted  the  night-hag 
To  her  furthest  hiding. 

On  the  lions  of  exultation 
I  ride  to  my  doom! 
No  tears  of  human  desolation 
Shall  find  my  tomb. 


[**] 


WILLIAM  CORBY 

I  drive  my  cows  to  Corby; 
On  sweet  spring-grass  they're  fed; 
But  it's  Madge  who  nestles  wantonly 
In  William  Corby's  bed. 

I  drive  my  sheep  to  Corby, 
And  the  gold-dust's  on  the  willow; 
But  it's  Nellie's  winsome  curls  that  lie 
On  William  Corby's  pillow. 

I  drive  my  geese  to  Corby 
When  the  bind-weed's  in  the  wheat; 
But  it's  Bess  who  cuddles  warm  and  sly 
'Neath  William  Corby's  sheet. 
[45] 


I  drive  my  pigs  to  Corby; 
And  the  hips  and  haws  are  red; 
But  none  but  me  will  mind  o*  he 
When  William  Corby's  dead ! 


[46] 


TO  A  CERTAIN  LADY 

They  tore  her  scarlet  gown. 

"What's  in  a  kiss?"  she  said — 

But  they  hunted  her  up  and  they  hunted  her  down 

From  end  to  end  of  their  moral  town, 

Till  they  left  her  there  for  dead. 


But  the  bleeding  throat  of  her  cry 

Was  heard  in  another  place; 

And  those  who  are  older  than  earth  or  sky — 

The  austere  ones  of  eternity  .  .  . 

They  knew  her  of  their  race. 

[47] 


"What's  this?"  they  said.     "For  a  kiss?"  said  they; 

And  they  took  the  red  from  the  dawn, 

And  they  took  the  dance  from  the  salt-sea  spray, 

And  they  took  the  purple  out  of  the  day, 

And  the  yellow  out  of  the  corn. 

"Give  her  life,  give  her  love,  give  her  peace,"  they 

said. 

"Give  her  back  her  scarlet  gown; 
Or  with  ashes  of  death  upon  every  head 
Dead  you  shall  skip  to  the  tune  of  the  dead 
In  your  moral  modern  town !" 


[48] 


THE  "DISASTER" 

Without  rudder,  without  sail 
Drifts  my  soul,  the  brig  "Disaster/' 
And  the  madness  of  the  gale 
Takes  the  place  of  mate  or  master ! 

Covered  is  its  ghostly  keel 
With  sea-slime,  sea-weed,  sea-crust; 
And  its  bulkheads  groan  and  reel ; 
And  its  bolts  are  caked  with  rust; 

Storm-tossed  sea-gulls  phantom-white 
On  the  spars  of  the  "Disaster" 
Scream  while  the  great  winds  of  night 
Drive  the  derelict  still  faster. 
[49] 


And  the  drowned  men  floating  deep 
Leagues  beneath  that  churning  sea, 
Mutter  in  their   careless   sleep, 
"The  brig  'Disaster'  goes  merrily!" 

And  the  brig  "Disaster"  drives  right  on, 
Without  captain,  without  mate, 
Top-sails,  bowsprit,  compass  gone, 
Lost — exultant,  desolate ! 


NOVEMBER 

I  will  come  back  to  you  and  you  to  me; 

When  the  poplar-trees  blow  white  and  the  rooks  fly 

home, 

And  the  fishermen  draw  their  nets  out  of  the  sea; 
I  will  come  back  to  you  and  you  to  me. 

When  across  the  flooded  weirs  the  wild-fowl  fly, 
When  the  dead  leaves  fall  from  each  remembered  tree, 
When  over  the  withered  grass  the  plovers  cry, 
I  will  come  back  to  you  and  you  to  me. 


[61] 


BON  ESPOIR  Y  GIST  AU  FOND! 

One  shimmering  opal  is  all  the  air 

And  the  sun  like  a  young  girl's  loosened  hair 

Covers  with  pools  of  liquid  yellow 

Window-sill,  floor,  and  bed  and  pillow! 

And  I  touch  the  secret — yet  have  it  not. 

It  is — God !     I've  forgotten  what — 

Yet  the  lovely  madness  wherewith  we're  mad, 

For  no  king's  penny  is  to  be  had ! 

Ha !  Monsieur  Maggot  and  my  Lord  Rat 

More's  in  this  business  than  you  guess  at! 

The  road-dust  sleeps  in  the  summer-heat 
And  the  hot  noon  drowses  on  ripened-wheat, 
[52] 


And  from  weed  to  weed  in  the  burnt-up  grass 
Heavy-winged  butterflies  flutter  past. 
Ha !     Monsieur  Maggot !     Ha !  my  Lord  Rat, 
There's  more  in  this  business  than  you  guess  at ! 

The  moon  floats  high  like  a  silver  barge, 
And  the  bracken  ferns  grow  strange  and  large, 
And  the  bull-rushes  forget  to  shiver 
As  she  pours  her  magic  on  meadow  and  river; 
And  the  tall  pond-reeds,  where  the  cattle  cross, 
Stand  silent;  and  silent  dreams  the  moss; 
And  the  hazel-wood  as  the  owl  hoots  by, 
Is  too  moon-tranced  to  heed  his  cry — 
Ha!     Monsieur  Maggot  and  my  Lord  Rat, 
Here's  something  for  you  to  squinny  at! 
We  pine  and  pine — but  by  Holy  Rood 
There's   something   here   not   understood — 
And  we  are  not  yet  the  Devil's  food ! 
[53] 


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